


for all my big mistakes

by knightship



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Family Issues, Panic Attacks, desmond has an inferiority complex, possible Shaun/Desmond, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2013-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 05:26:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightship/pseuds/knightship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Desmond hates his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for all my big mistakes

Sometimes, Desmond hates his father.

It’s better than it was, he knows that. The Farm was worse, he was always so scared there, a skinny kid that flinched when he caught his dad’s eye but forced his spine straight to avoid scrutiny. His dad never hit him. It wasn’t like that. But the constant fear, the hyper-vigilance- that was what, more than anything, drove him away. And he’s had his time outside of that. And now he’s an adult, he’s a big boy, he can fucking take it. This is his duty.

It’s just a hit to the face, he tells himself when he catches glimpses in the obsidian walls of the bruise. It doesn’t mean shit.

Except that it does.

Desmond didn’t used to understand why his dad got mad when he’d been caught with his hand in a pocket or he failed to hide himself. He’d thought, yeah, that it was fault, that him being a fuck-up was the cause, the anger the result. But now that he’s older he understands a little of it. That when you’re scared shitless, it’s easier to be angry, to clench your hands into a fist rather than shake apart.

Shake like he’s shaking now.

Fuck this. Fuck everything, he’s not some little kid that has panic attacks anymore, he’s an Assassin, a- a killer- 

Slipping to the floor is weird, almost disembodied, and he can’t feel anything but the shakes in his hands and the space inside of his chest. Desmond hates this, hates feeling this weak, hates that his dad can put him in this place so easily. He’s just a man, same as Desmond. 

The hate makes things fuzzy, thoughts rushing loud between his ears, and so when he hears footsteps he doesn’t think about who it could be, just rushes up from the floor, fist raised-

Shaun catches his arm just before he gets hit in the face, and as soon as Desmond sees the startled look behind the glasses, he drops back a few feet, struggling to control his breathing.

“Sorry, thought you were- what’d you need?” he asks, and at least he sounds sort of normal. 

Shaun is staring, though, lips pressed in a thin line.

“What?” he barks, too sharp.

“You’re shaking, Desmond,” Shaun says, and there’s this weird weakness to his voice- no, not weak. Kind. Soft. 

It makes him feel like he’s going to explode out of his own skin. No one has ever seen him like this, when he’s this close to coming unhinged. And now that he’s here, all those times he was tripping out of his mind in some gas station bathroom and sobbing into the tiled wall and wishing for some help, now he knows it’s better that help never came. He doesn’t want to be seen like this.

“I asked you what you needed, Shaun,” he snarls, and if he’s hiding his face in his hood, then who gives a shit.

“Wow, and I thought I had a problem with self-loathing,” Shaun quips, and it’s just bright enough to make him look up. Shaun doesn’t look bright, though, he looks like he’d like to gut someone. And oddly enough, from the way his mouth twists up when he meets Desmond’s eye, he doesn’t seem to be angry at him.

“Come on then, let’s sit down,” Shaun says, shoving at his arm a little, and Desmond lets Shaun sit down, and follows warily.

“I know we don’t exactly...do this. But these past few months have been tough. And I don’t think William knows quite how much we all owe you our lives, Desmond,” Shaun says, and Desmond...doesn’t know what to say to that, really. His hip is pressed against Shaun’s thigh, and something about it is nice. Human contact, he thinks bitterly, it’s been a while. Or at least it’s been awhile since someone touched him in a way that didn’t leave a bruise.

“If it weren’t for me, Lucy would still be alive,” he says, and doesn’t know exactly where that bubbled up from but hey, it’s true, and while we’re picking open scabs, why not open the one that sent him into a coma?

“Yes, or she would have gone out the way any of us could, every single day, and I’m sure you’d still find a way to blame yourself for it,” Shaun says. He’s knotting his fingers together, but every few seconds seems to realize it and unknots them, only for them to do it again, almost like he’s doing it without thinking. Desmond watches for a moment, and then reaches over and covers Shaun’s hands with one of his own.

Shaun goes completely still, and when Desmond looks at him, it’s like he’s one of his precious hard drives, wiped blank.

Slowly, Desmond removes his hand, and Shaun clears his throat, looking around belatedly.

“Sorry. Just. You seemed nervous. You don’t have to be,” Desmond says, and his voice sounds loud in the open room in a way it didn’t before.

“It’s alright. I- there’s a reason I took my battle to the internet, first, and it’s largely due to the fact that people regularly terrify me,” Shaun says, light, like it’s supposed to be a joke, but Desmond sees the seriousness in his eyes. Desmond smirks, thinking about making a joke, but then that would just ruin everything, wouldn’t it? Usually that’s what he wants, but this time- it feels like something important, being said here.

“It’s not his fault, anyways,” Desmond says, “I shouldn’t have said he was like a Templar, that was-”

“Completely apt, in my opinion. He’s been a slave driver. I understand the urgency, really, but time is running out. The last thing he should be doing is wasting his time left with you picking fights,” Shaun says, and there’s a tone to his voice that has Desmond looking at how Shaun laces his hands together again and thinking oh.

“You ever miss your family?” he asks, and Shaun looks away. 

“Not much to miss. Mum ran out when I was young, Dad was an inattentive workaholic. It was mostly me and my sister.”

“Sister?”

“Yes. She died when I was twelve.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Older or younger?”

“Older.”

Desmond doesn’t know what to say after that. He doesn’t want to ask about this sister- it’s obviously an old wound that still hasn’t healed, if the way Shaun draws his knees up is any indication. And fathers are a touchy subject that he doesn’t know how to breach. 

Instead of talking, he presses a little more solidly into Shaun’s side, shoulder to arm to hip and legs. Shaun tenses, but doesn’t pull away, and it’s quiet. Almost all of Desmond’s anger has swollen and died in the warmth of Shaun’s sweater, the catch of a cuff button on his sweatshirt. 

Eventually Shaun’s earpiece buzzes with his Dad’s voice, and Shaun bolts up from where he’s slumped into Desmond a little to answer. He waits until Shaun is done talking, and then grabs his slack hand to use as leverage to pull himself up.

Desmond is hardly a little kid anymore, but he’ll admit (to himself) that he kind of wants to hold Shaun’s hand. He’s got nice hands. Nervous and expressive, but nice.

“Time to get back to work,” Shaun says darkly, and Desmond almost laughs at that.

“Only if I can get a drink first, my face is starting to throb,” he says, and Shaun snorts.

“Oh, suck it up. It’s just your face. You don’t need that for anything,” he says, and Desmond doesn’t even take it personally. 

“Maybe I need it into scaring you awake when you’re snoozing at your keyboard,” and Shaun chuckles, fast and loud like a bolt of lightning. Desmond follows him out, and his dad will apologize, and time will plod on, with or without them.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't played all the games and I couldn't find a good source for Shaun's dialogue, but the Wiki page had nothing on his family so I assume it's not mentioned, and I couldn't quite remember what he said in response to the fight between William and Desmond other than it wasn't helping anybody, so if it's way off someone can call me on it. Possible trigger warnings for panic attacks and social anxiety.
> 
> I would also like to note that this was supposed to be a happy birthday fic to make me feel a little better about the fact that Desmond didn't make it to his twenty-sixth birthday, and instead it turned out sort of angsty and shippy, so sorry.


End file.
